Pearly

Sunlight and Cotton Candy Clouds
explode over the mountain peaks.
thrown is the happiness
d
o
w
n
on a valley
covered in laughter
song and unicorns
endless blue eyes
and flowing streams of blonde.

— Past all the beauty
down the only
dirt road in existance on earth
on the left
and hidden way back
in the darkness
That is my home.
seldom seen is
all of the colour
of this Wonderworld.
d
o
w
n
on myself
is where i stay.
The current
of the wild Self Loathing River
is so tough
and the undertow
could make you disappear
all t o g e t h e r

But somewhere deep
deep
d
e
e
p
(inside) of (me)
i know i can learn
scholar like - though i am not
to navigate by the stars
to swim through the rough
and
make
it back
to that dream.
Wher the eyes will
   always shine
     and never
         rain
‘   ’ ”” ’ ’ ”
   ’ ’ ”’ ’ ” ‘
    ’ ’ ” ‘
” ”” ” ’ ’ ”
       ’ ‘
     back to
       that
Wonderworld
        .x.

22nd April 2010

Post

quit writing, because i am certain that its almost all bullshit.

I remember only the words

No feelings.

Just scenes, Polaroid snapshots

Of long passionate scratches down backs

Red streaks of love

From nails grown long

And over-heated hearts

Caught in a moment.

Loss of time in tangled sheets

Soft-spoken words

In between flesh and spit meet

Almost always summer

When the memories repeat.

I’d try it again

I’d pay for love in full

But, it’s not worth the cost

Of ruined mind and soul.

It’s not worth the fall

Believe me,

I’ve seen ruined men

Dance through silent halls

Repeating words

Only one other had heard before.

Chasing lies and dreams

outfitted with eyes red and sore.

And now I cant even speak

Or draw how empty arms feel

When I turn in my sleep

And cling to the unreal.

The sun warms not

But reminds me of just how cold

My dead insides feel

For I made not a cent
Off all of our love that I sold.

xx

18th April 2010

Post reblogged from Fuck Yeah, DRA with 12 notes

new york city | ryan adams

fuckyeahdra:

pearlsonastring:

    I used to live in hotels. Because I thought it was romantic. Or something. I have an idea of how that sounds, so spare me. I can go on here and reveal that I mean I lived “in” them, as in weeks, sometimes months, eventually for over a year, but – trust me – I know how that sounds, so, again, spare me. I tell myself, and other people, now that I thought it was romantic, but I am beginning to see the lies. They unfold over time like wet newspaper and there’s always a little lie left on the page. Lie residue. Like when you lean against a coin or a metal grill long enough. You can see some of the letters or numbers or the indentation, but then that fades out and you’re just left with skin. Skin and wet news. Wet cartoons. Unreadable crosswords. I didn’t live in hotels because I thought it was romantic. That was the fall guy. It was all I knew. Somehow paying up front kept me from the bigger and truly more horrible lie. A fish refuting the sea. My own seventy-dollar-a-day fish tank. I lived in hotels because I could do nothing and everything at once. Somehow all those days of crawling past the front desk into the laundry-room heat, or the snowfield of cars, those singular days, they became uncountable. I was afraid of life running out on me, So I started counting. I started counting and I lost myself somewhere and it all meant nothing. The hotel is the easiest time a dreamer like me ever does. That is, until now. Until I write about these things now. And spare me. I know how this sounds.

    I save movie ticket stubs. I have hundreds. I have divided them up into several different wallets over time, and I find them in jackets that I might not have worn for a few years. I don’t do this because I’m sentimental. When I find one in a jacket and I’m out I usually am finding something for someone and I pull one out. I can retell the exact time of night, where I was, who I was with, what they were wearing and, from time to time, where we sat. I always say it’s because I’m sentimental. But that is also a lie. I am not sentimental at all. I save them because I would have no memory without them. What is the story with the gingerbread house and the pieces of bread left to find your way back? Movie stubs are my way back. My way back to countless bad movies I have digested over the years at the suggestion of a friend or lover. I have never taken anyone to the movies on my own account. I hate the movies. I have never seen one alone. Actually, I went to see one movie alone when I was twenty purely because I had the worst crush on the girl who worked at the counter at this hellhole movie theater and I had a girlfriend so I went alone. I didn’t save that ticket stub. This must be the exception. It was a Spanish film and I fell madly in love with the caretaker of that house – a minor role actually – and I believe I made my home without as much as a second glance at the girl I had come to see. I saw her eyes drifting past me night after night as my lover would roll over to the cool side of the bed and reach for the light. Lying with shoulders back and arms outstretched, the tape leader clicking away on the metal spool.

    I would eventually see this same film from the projector room, drowning in a pool of hair and lipstick, peering through the tiny projector-room light box at my Spanish lover. Unknowing idiot college students majoring in farming and English screaming “Focus” in their tired Southern accents. The girl at the theater was not American but not English and she only murmured something inaudible as she came.

    Hotels have some secret code, so subtle that it can only be broken if you submit yourself to that kind of routine. In them I have found glamor. I have found power. I have found moxie. The finest being the tall and brutish hotel that sits at the end of Hollywood Boulevard, a stubborn, unchanging coat of windows and soot. A special little hellhole that is unchangeable. Like a cruel fact. As a con man more than an artist, I am obsessed with “fact” because it is unattainable to me, like spirituality for junkies. A pleasant paper trail, a wild-goose chase meant only to throw you off the one that was successfully killing you the last time. I’d much rather chase the carrot an ass full of whiskey and coke than getting all strung out on questions. Questions are far more destructive. There’s no room for vanity in questions, and the hours are crap.

    There are no rules to living in hotels but one. Do not drink at the bar. Ever. It implies a relationship. It’s kissing-on-the-mouth, hooker-to-john kinda stuff. Plus they always ask questions. Imagine yourself three or four easy half past ten and you reach for a cigarette and out you pull a movie ticket stub. The mystery just wouldn’t be the same. It’s far easier to tape the Do Not Disturb sign to the doorknob and collect bottles from the liquor store that delivers. If they don’t come in, you don’t have to explain why the prints of Van Gogh or whoever are riding the spare blankets in the closet. It’s just you and the angry word. The truth and the numbers. The counting to one million and the money you’re losing you were never gonna use for anything anyway. That kind of money is best squandered because you have to save yourself from trying to save the world. You have to convince yourself there is nothing between you and these songs, or these letters, or the pieces of paper with numbers of people who told you something nice at the shit-hole bar down the street about your shoes that you just wouldn’t stop talking to. Accent changing back and forth from fake English to pure wasted drunk fuckface.

    You can’t save the world but you can save the receipt. Somebody told me that in a taxi cab once and I vaguely remember throwing up out the window someplace in Los Angeles slightly before I checked out for the last time. The car was uttering it’s disapproval, making its way up Laurel Canyon – or whatever canyon – and it wanted to throw a rod, but over all that screaming laughter from these ridiculous girls in the front it had no choice. The stars that spun above me as I hung my head out the window, drooling mouth, were a warning sign from the past. As if they were saying, we have all died, but if only for you to witness now. How pretty a long and spectacular cosmic death it must be. And to go on, and make that kind of noise with light up there in that pool of empty tar, my universe is an asshole, no, an endless sea of assholes at the bar, with movie ticket stubs and a checkout day they will never control.

Source: saturday-shoes-deactivated

8th April 2010

Photo